


Something like a circus or a sewer

by that_1_incident



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Amusement Parks, Coney Island, F/F, Grief/Mourning, New York City, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 01:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20219557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: Patterson and Jane connect in the aftermath of David's death.





	Something like a circus or a sewer

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Coney Island Baby" by Lou Reed.
> 
> Set in the aftermath of "Blindspot" 1x09, "Authentic Flirt"/"Lift the Curtain."

Although Jane's known a number of people who have died, she can't remember any of them.

More specifically, her memories of those she's lost come back to haunt her in the same manner as everything else does, which is to say sporadically and in fragmented flashes. So despite her history of loss, she doesn't know from grief, not really, and that could be why Patterson came to her in the first place. After all, the woman with the chemically erased mind can't mold Patterson's pain into the shape of her own heartbreak, won't lop off errant edges to make it fit. Or perhaps it's that Jane's safe house was the last place Patterson felt happy, her eyes wine-bright and sparkling, her loose curls bouncing lightly when she nodded and laughed. Or maybe it's that Jane was the first to see Patterson's face after the call came through about David, Jane whose eyes grew wide and whose heart trembled with an instinctive empathy she hadn't previously been aware she possessed - just another thing locked inside the vault of her mind, sandwiched somewhere between the knowledge of how to fly a helicopter and the ability to speak Bulgarian like a native. 

\--

Jane didn't know David's name until he died, which is a fact she finds peculiar. He was _Library Boy_ to the team - the guy who almost got Patterson fired, the one whose knack for puzzle-solving was apparently only matched by an ill-fatedly insatiable curiosity. She gets the story of his demise in pieces the night Patterson appears at her door near tears, clutching an overnight bag and photo printouts of Jane's tattoos jammed haphazardly into manila folders. 

The next morning, Patterson rises from Jane's couch as bright and breezy as Jane has ever known her, proceeds to work ferociously throughout the day, then clambers into the car that shuttles Jane from the safe house to FBI headquarters and back again with the air of someone upholding a longstanding engagement. 

Jane doesn't skip a beat - she was trained for this, she's sure of it, trained not just to roll with the punches but to dodge them before they've been delivered - and the duo spends the drive immersed in amiable chatter, talking quietly on Jane's part and remarkably chipperly on Patterson's. The men on Jane's detail don't bat an eyelash (she supposes the members of her team are on avery short list of approved visitors), and when one shuts them both inside the safe house, she could swear she hears the steely clang of a cell door. 

She glances over at Patterson with the intent to make some snide comment like _Welcome to Rikers; enjoy your stay_, but the quip dies on her lips as the other woman's eyes fill with tears. 

\--

Jane realizes later that night as she shifts uncomfortably on the couch that her safe house has become Patterson's, too. The other woman is finally slumbering, curled awkwardly against Jane like she might just disappear if she makes herself small enough, and while it wouldn't take more than a slow slide and a soft pad of feet for Jane to extract herself and head to bed, she doesn't want to risk dislodging the blessedly peaceful expression on Patterson's face. 

In truth, David's body is barely cold, yet his death feels like eons ago, as if Jane's somehow already gained enough distance to see it rip her life into a before and an after. At least this time, she can remember both pieces. 

\--

Nearly a week has passed by the time it occurs to Jane that the unbearable loneliness she's grown accustomed to hanging over her with a shroudlike oppressiveness seems somewhat to have lifted, exposing enough of a break in the clouds for a thoroughly alien light to shine through. 

\--

Whenever Jane becomes aware of the panic rising within her like a tsunami as a cascade of unanswered questions barrels down on her with a dull roar, her mind's eye places her on the train to Coney Island, trundling away from FBI headquarters and the safe house and the international landmark she's come to think of as her birthplace (it's where, after all, she was shoved unceremoniously into the world as she knows it, naked and helpless and trussed up in a duffel bag).

She realizes with a jolt that the last time she sneaked out of the safe house, David was still alive. It's been days since she heeded the siren song of the subway station and basked in the lumbering cadence of carriages chugging methodically along time-worn tracks, but when she closes her eyes, she can still feel the whooshing rush of the train swirling around her, the low electric hum of the voltage thrumming beneath her fingers.

Whoever she is and wherever she's been in her life (her second life, the one between being born in Pennsylvania as Taylor Shaw and being born in Times Square as Jane Doe), she's grateful to have landed in the city that never sleeps. 

\--

Patterson's known about Jane's penchant for sneaking out since the evening they got drinks with Zapata, yet Jane never imagined the two of them would find themselves standing side by side on the subway platform, waiting to be whisked away from the bustle of the city. 

It's a long ride out to the southern tip of Brooklyn, a sizable trek to take for no real reason - although, as one of the building-height billboards near the FBI office declares, the journey is the destination. While Jane's grown to appreciate the solitude of such jaunts, to savor the sensation of being but a blip in the great roiling miasma of Manhattan, she's surprised by how pleasant she finds Patterson's company as they sit next to each other in silence, staring out into the black. 

\--

Once they arrive, Jane hops the chain link fence like it's nothing and pretends not to notice a flicker of admiration cross Patterson's face. Likewise, Patterson ignores the incredulous quirk of Jane's eyebrow when she effortlessly disables the security system - and with that, the amusement park becomes their silent playground. They take a few seconds to survey the eerie topography of the place, each ride silhouetted loomingly against a night sky dripping in shadow, and Jane's eyes meet Patterson's in childlike wonder. 

At the push of a button, the Tilt-A-Whirl awakens with a purr, powering up like a spaceship before bursting into a fiesta of colors and swiftly dancing lights. Jane pushes through the turnstile, clambers into the nearest car, and is promptly gratified by Patterson's choice to follow rather than claiming a car for herself. Something quietly unfurls itself inside her at the press of another body against her own.

Patterson screams in delight as the ride picks up speed, instinctively gripping Jane's hand when their car careens into a 360-degree lurch, and an irrepressible grin tugs at the edges of Jane's mouth. Her third life, the one that began in Times Square, has contained precious little joy thus far - mere snatches of it, if she's honest, and mostly in the form of adrenaline-fueled shootouts, narrow escapes, or other flavors of near-death encounters - yet there's something about whirling through the air solely for the thrill of it that engenders a sensation of being temporarily unburdened. If the expression on Patterson's face is anything to go by, the other woman feels the same.

Operating purely on impulse, Jane leans forward to narrow the gap between their mouths, but an abrupt lurch of the car summarily scuppers any tenderness she might have hoped to convey. Instead, Patterson falls heavily against her, and Jane finds the sudden connectedness of their lips almost as welcome as it is surprising. 

Although Jane momentarily wonders whether she's taking advantage of a pretty girl in mourning, Patterson's decidedly enthusiastic reciprocation allays her concerns. No sooner does Patterson twine her fingers through the short tufts of hair at the nape of Jane's neck, the car banks sharply to the left, and the other woman's laugh is soft and joyful against Jane's mouth. For the first time that she can remember, Jane feels free.


End file.
